


Results Are In

by Occula



Category: U2
Genre: Celebrations, Elections, M/M, New York, getting it on, happier times, thanks obama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14083566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occula/pseuds/Occula
Summary: Adam visits Bono at his New York apartment; they watch the 2008 U.S. election results on TV; they celebrate those results.





	Results Are In

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to LJ on Nov. 24, 2008. Those were the days.

“I can’t stand it,” Bono moaned at the television. “The suspense is killing me, Adam.”

I nodded from the kitchen of his New York apartment, where I was fixing him a drink that didn’t have a name because I’d invented it earlier that evening, as far as I knew. “It’s bound to come out right,” I called back. “Don’t worry.”

Channels flipped as I brought him the glass. _Again, two hundred seventy is the … early polling indicates … too close to call … polls close in the west … map indicates states that Bush won in 2004 …_ I was tempted to grab the remote away from him. All the better if I was only partially successful and he tried to wrestle it back; I knew where he was ticklish.

“They’ll do the right thing,” I said, hoping I was right. “The polls have been consistent for weeks.”

“Never underestimate the power of fear,” Bono murmured, sipping. “Thanks, Ad’ – these are good.”

“At least there’ll be a change, no matter what.” Besides (of course) the long-term global implications, I had short-term private misgivings. A happy Bono is happy all over, which boded well for the rest of my visit. But a sad Bono … an angry, frustrated Bono … I tried to tell myself that at least I’d be there to comfort him, if the worst happened. But it had been so long since we’d stolen a block of private time, and I’d only just got there that morning. “Besides, Pennsylvania – the heads on that other channel were saying McCain _cannot_  win without Pennsylvania.”

Bono went through the pertinent half dozen channels again. “I know,” he said. “I’m so nervous, and nothing to do but wait. I should’ve _done_  something.”

“You can’t vote,” I reminded him, trying for levity. “And Edge and Larry wouldn’t let you actually endorse him. Your statement was plain enough, though. You know anyone who would pay attention to your endorsement is already voting for Obama anyway.”

“You’d think, as much as they hated my meetings with President Bush, they’d have wanted me to come right out with it. How long until more polls close? Christ, I think I’m losing it.”

“I think they were afraid it’d be taken the wrong way – who does he think he is, messing in our politics, that sort of thing. You wouldn’t want it to backfire. West coast closes in a few minutes, that one said just now.”

It had been a long evening. We’d started watching before any polls had closed, eating takeaway in front of the television, and Bono hadn’t pulled himself away all night.

“It _has_  to happen,” I muttered, half to myself.

And then, suddenly, it did. Bono stopped on one of the channels just as the west coast polls closed, and the newsman said it, all in a moment.

“Barack Obama is the next president of the United States.”

I’d expected it, I’d _known_  it, but it was still a sudden, fierce, visceral pleasure. Tears sprang to my eyes even as Bono whooped.

“Fuck, fuck me, we did it, they did it, Adam!” His voice broke on my name, and I saw the tears in his eyes as well. The television showed people dancing in the streets, in Chicago, in Washington, in Kenya and elsewhere abroad, cheering, crying. I heard car horns, lots of them, from the street far below.

I grabbed his drink from him and took a swallow. It wasn’t that good, too sweet, but I had to do _something_. As I put the glass down, smiling, he grabbed my face and kissed me firmly. It was like New Year’s, suddenly a holiday, like a celebration at what had been a sickbed. I felt giddy with it, even while I knew it was nothing compared to his happiness.

“Thank God,” he said. A tear had run down his cheek, and I wiped it with my sleeve to the sound of celebrating. I could feel his body, against me on the sofa, not quivering exactly, but _full_ , bursting with that poorly-contained energy he carried after a performance. “I couldn’t let myself believe it until it was … really real,” he said.

I couldn’t stop grinning; we both were beaming. “It’s _real_ ,” I said.

“Ahhhhhhhh.” He leaned back with a loud exhale, and I saw some of the tension leave him.

Still grinning, I said, “How shall we celebrate?” That got a delighted laugh.

“The best way.” He turned to me again, leaning over me so I leaned back as we began kissing. Bono has always been _such_  a good kisser. He always smelled good, and since I’d stolen a drink, we tasted nearly the same. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days; I relished the feel of him, solid, substantial, and all mine for a while.

A little time passed, with kisses and murmurs, until he pulled away and I whimpered a protest. He was fumbling for the remote to mute it; the president-elect was speaking to a cheering and weeping crowd in Chicago.

“You don’t want to miss that,” I said (reluctantly).

“No worries,” he said. “I’m recording that bit to watch tomorrow. Where were we?”

“You were driving me mad with kissing,” I said, and he dropped the remote and came back to me, kissing down my throat now, nibbling at my neck, moving to unbutton my shirt, his bristly hair prickling at my face. “I love you so much,” I told him as I let him take my shirt off.

Soon enough he had my trousers open, insistent hand teasing outside my underwear while he licked my stomach. I reciprocated as much as I could manage, beneath him, squeezing his arse, squirming one arm between us to press the front of his jeans. His hand was maddening; I ground against it as best I could until he broke off, gasping.

“Let’s get on the bed,” he urged; I didn’t hesitate. Adolescent gropings on inappropriate furniture were all very well, but give me a nice big bed with a supply of lubricant nearby any day. I stripped off my trousers at the bedside and turned on a lamp while he took his clothes off too; he threw back the covers and we met in the middle.

It was impossible to be self-conscious around him, impossible to worry about one’s body or age or even performance. Everything was always good, with him. So good to be naked with him, eager for him; so good to hug one another close for a moment before continuing.

He bent and took me into his mouth suddenly, but not harshly. I cried out softly; his mouth was so hot, his tongue busy, teasing me now one way, now another. His stubble pressed into my thigh, and his hands worked around whatever bits weren’t in his mouth. It was magnificent, and almost too much. “Easy,” I gasped, and felt his laugh tingle through me before he released me, coming up to sprawl on me, hands holding my arms down.

“Good?”

“Fuck, yes,” I answered as he pressed against me. “Let me taste you?”

“And then?” His eyes sparkled at me.

“Then fuck me.”

“Mmm, I will.” He crawled up me and got on his knees over me, bracing on the headboard. I had to crane my neck up, but I could reach him, hard and delicious, smelling clean and warm and all him. It seemed like forever since I’d got to do this, and I took full advantage, wrapping one hand around the base of him to steer him steady. Then teasing him with the tip of my tongue, letting him see it; I knew he liked that, and liked the way I met his eyes while I did it.

“Fuck, Adam, baby … oh, fuuuuck.”

Harder licks, circling. Then wet lip-nibbles, making him moan. Tighter. Then deeper. More tongue, flicking harder. Then further, sucking him in, deep strokes, humming a little around him, trying to keep him from thrusting too much. I slipped my free hand between his legs, stroking his balls, then further back, rubbing firmly, until he stopped me.

“Flip over; I want you.”

I did, happily, scattering pillows aside while he fumbled in the nearby drawer for the bottle. Cold, he always used a bit too much of it at first, but the sensations overruled the temperature after only a second as a finger slipped inside me, rotating.

“Oh …”

“Oh, yeah,” he breathed, continuing to twist and thrust.

After a minute he added more lubricant and another finger, and I gasped. “Come on,” I begged. “Please, Bono.”

“Not yet,” he said soothingly, pushing harder, making me shiver. “You’re not ready.”

He was driving me mad, turning his hand, making me thrust against him. “Fuck I’m not,” I panted.

“Okay.” Another cold touch, and he was there, entering slowly at first, making me gasp and shiver. “Steady,” he murmured, calming me. “Get used to it.”

I knew I should; the initial hurt was always daunting, and it had been a while. But I wanted him so badly. “Don’t tease,” I whimpered, not caring how I sounded.

His hands were rubbing comforting circles on my hips and lower back. The pain was passing; I thrust back against him, carefully at first. Slowly, we found the right way to move together, murmuring to each other.

Then, as always, abruptly I was through the pain as though it had never been. He heard the change in my voice and began to move more deliberately, giving me, giving us both what we needed. I braced more firmly and demanded, “More.”

“Not yet,” he said again, voice uneven. “Ah, I love to fuck you.”

I couldn’t help moving harder, then, and despite his denial, he did too, fingers digging into my hip. Faster, and I threw my head back for more air, quivering all over. God, it was good, we matched perfectly, in complete sync, voices rising. “You,” he cried, and I shifted, bracing on the headboard with one hand and grabbing my cock with the other. It felt amazing, so much going on, full and thrusting and tight and fast.

“Hurry,” he groaned, “ohplease,” and I hurried, losing words as I cried aloud. He rammed into me hard, sending us both there together, something we didn’t always manage. I loved it, loved the feeling of coming so intensely, my whole body alive and wild while he came inside me, sweaty against me, clinging tightly.

We rolled aside and curled up together, hearts still thumping. “Oh,” he panted. “I love you, Adam. I miss this so much.”

He was so sentimental, and I knew the events of the day had wrung his emotions. I held him close. “I’m here now,” I said, smiling. “I love you, too.”

“What a day,” he mumbled, sleepy already, at least momentarily. “What a fucking brilliant day.”


End file.
